That's my son, not a bomb

              I love to travel; always have.  I’ve been across Europe and the States, by bus, plane, train and automobile.   I’ve been stranded, attacked by locals, found myself passed out in mysterious places, I’ve suited up and suited down and so much more.  Some of the best times of my life were spent traveling.  Travelling with a child, on the other hand, sucks.  Instead of worrying about how you can afford to buy another drink, or often times afford not to, you find yourself with a child strapped, quite literally, to your back.  And, at all times, you must ensure that your child is enjoying your family outing; else, everyone that crosses your path may suffer and the photos you show your children when they’ve grown up will act as a more successful form of birth control than any you ever had when they look back on these events with you. 

Following the birth of our son, we’ve succeeded in making two major trips with the little guy: a Floridian ‘vacation’ and a haphazard trip to Iowa to visit family.  Unlike travelling sans child, the attempt of successfully navigating security without having to stop is reduced by bulky strollers that don’t fit through x-rays and children that, for some ridiculous reason, must comply with security rules by taking off their shoes just like every other suspected character to pass through.  While Cal is more than happy to strip down in the middle of a long security line full of people in a hurry, the act of balancing three pieces of carryon, your personal affects, a now nagging partner, the damned stroller you didn’t want to bring and a mischievous toddler is made more difficult with such perceived trivial threats of a bomb-laden child.  If ever a circus act was allowed in an airport, I was where it was to be found. 

Rather than argue with the pudgy security officer as to why they found it necessary for my child to remove his shoes, we complied with sneers and by the hand of a superior being made it through security with relative ease.  Cal, found to be free of bomb like substances, was hurried through the security check, whereupon the only casualties included Cal’s mysterious, yet alleged, juice-like substance and my forgotten bottle of water.  These items were safely discarded by security personnel in a garbage can, where I can only imagine any supposed bomb making or like substances would be sent to our local sanitation facility—along with my son’s juice of course. 

Once on the plane, I imagined the worst behind us.  Thankfully, the airline had yet to adopt the courteous position of allowing parents with small children to board first.  The three of us did battle with the glaring passengers and tossed the stroller into a corner at the plane’s entrance.  I prayed they would lose that uncomfortable, oversized piece of crap.  Tray tables were up, my seat in its full and upright position, we were finally on our way.   

At this time, Cal took it upon himself to see that our neighbors in the seats ahead of us knew we were present and accounted for.  He kicked like a kangaroo in a boxing match, only stopping to laugh when his pals in front turned around to beg for our support in lassoing the trip meddling child.  We made fallible promises to god and our child, as I feared removal from the plane was imminent.  Boob now in mouth, Cal settled down, lounging across his mother and stretching across me.  His early morning had finally caught up to him, as he passed out across the two of us, leaving his $300 seat unused. 

The rest of our travels were filled with arguments with airline staff—when they informed us they were out of food as our helpless child moaned for their crappy grilled chicken—and my finding that the only competent thing they could do was provide us the stroller I had wished doomed upon our trips end.  I was never so happy to find myself in the Midwest, snow forecasted and our trip already 1/3 complete.  At least the travel back to California was just as eventful.  Here’s to future travels with the people we love!